


Brother, Let Me Be Your Shelter

by stonedcutoats



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Episode: s13e21 Beat the Devil, Protective Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 15:14:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17769179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedcutoats/pseuds/stonedcutoats
Summary: Sam stumbles forwards ....The Devil is in Apocalypse world, and Sam let him into camp.





	Brother, Let Me Be Your Shelter

Sam stumbled forwards, the relieved look on his face once those tired eyes met Dean’s slid into grief and shame. Dean saw the shift immediately, his eyes trained on his little brother’s face. His dead little brother’s face. Lucifer swam into sight behind him, smug and suave, greeting Jack like they were the best of friends, but Dean couldn’t peel his green eyes away from Sam. The sounds of the camp, of shock, of Lucifer’s cruelly smooth voice blended into a buzz – and all he could hear was his own ragged breath.

Sam took another step, and Dean caught the wobble of his right knee – it was always the right knee first – and years on instinct flooded into Dean. He crossed the fifty-foot gap between them in what felt like seconds and caught Sam under the shoulder’s just as he fell forwards. Somewhere behind him he could hear Cas and Gabriel herding people away from the clearing, away from the devil, and to his left, he head the defiance of Jack’s voice as he told the Morning Star that he was not his son, but Dean’s eyes saw red, saw the blood covering Sam’s neck and face, the bloodshot eyes that only happened when Sam cried. He felt the larger man sink onto him, and Dean sank down to the ground, cradling his younger brother’s head in his hands as Sam began to shake.

Sam never let go like this. Not in front of Dean. And never in public. His younger brother seized and tensed against Dean’s grasp, as if trying to escape, but Dean grabbed Sam’s biceps and held him in place, so hard that Dean wouldn’t doubt that there would be bruises.

“Sammy, Sam –“ Dean faltered. With a shuddering breath, he continued. “Hey, Sammy, are you hurt? Sammy did he touch you?”

Dean’s voice was a rapid whisper, and Sam shivered.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam said. The first thing Dean heard once his brother came back to live was an apology, and fury towards Lucifer, and towards every single monster out there clouded his vision.

“Hey,” Dean, if at all possible, tightened his grip, and shook Sam, whose head lolled in place. “Hey, no, none of that.”

Dean was immediately brought back to a younger self, holding a younger Sam; knees in the mud, darkness surrounding them and a big bloody wound in Sam’s back, life fading from him –

No. Sam was alive. Sam was so very alive.

Sam started to say something, his mouth opened, dry lips parted, but Dean shook his head and heaved his brother to his feet. They stumbled, a bit, as Dean held the weight of two men. Suddenly, his mother was at his side, and her delicate frame took half of Sam’s sagging body. Dean let Mary take the lead and with fragile steps, they made their way to one of the cabins on the left.

It was empty when they stepped inside – the occupants must have left in the commotion, and their ally angels must be keeping them at bay.

Together, they set Sam down on the bed, and Dean immediately took the place beside him, placing his hands on either side of his young brother’s face. Under rough palms, Sam’s cheeks were wet and tacky, with tears, with blood, with sweat and dirt. How many times has this happened, wondered Dean, and he fought to make Sam’s watery eyes meet his own. How many run-down buildings had they sat in, covered with blood and tears, shaking the other back to consciousness, begging the other to just look at them. How many times has Lucifer tore them down.

“Sam?” said Mary softly. 

“Sorry,” said Sam again. His voice was rough, and Dean watched as his mother stood and began to rifle through someone else’s home. She found a canteen and brought it over, tipped some murky water into her son’s mouth. Most of it spilled onto his chin, wiping clean some of the mess. Dean was suddenly thankful to not be doing this alone.

“It’s not your fault, Sam,” said Dean again. He always said this. And maybe it wasn’t always true, but today, today it was.

“He brought me back,” whispered Sam. He looked past Dean and Mary, towards the bare rough wood of the shack. “He always brings me back. He never lets me die. He’s never let me die, De’.”

Dean watched as his mother’s mouth dropped slightly, and he remembered how little she knew. There was never time to get into the specifics, between the honeymoon hunting period and the British Men of Letters. How does one get into the past, when the past of the Winchesters is years of horror?

Sam had died. Sam had died when the vampires had gotten him. How many times has this happened, how many times has his brother been deprived of life only to be revived at the whim of someone else.

“Mom, can you get Cas?” asked Dean quickly, before she could say anything, and before he could think about it anymore. “I want him to check Sam out.”

The dismissal is clear as day, and she stands in an instant. The minute she’s gone, Dean places his fingers on Sam’s throat. Where the vampire tore a chuck clean off. The skin is whole. Unbroken. A pulse vibrates through. Sure, it’s a little too fast, a little to shaky. But it’s life. A clear, undeniable sign of life.

“Hey, you’re okay.”

Sam lifts his eyes. Finally. “He’s here.”

“That’s okay.” And Dean means it.

Sam swallows and looks around. “I brought another monster to this place.”

“You didn’t, Sam. Besides, there are plenty of monsters here already, what’s one more.”

“Rowena…” Sam trailed off and closed his eyes. “We shouldn’t have left him with her. She’s – she’s scared of him too. If he hurt her –“

“Don’t think about that,” said Dean. He closed his eyes for a second. Rowena. The rift. A thousand questions, and no possible answers.

“I can’t do this,” whispered Sam. He was looking past Dean’s shoulder, at the rotting wood of the cabin walls. “I can’t do this again.”

“Do what, Sammy?”

“I can never escape,” he said softly, and Dean swore under his breath. There were tears gathering at the corners of Sam’s eyes, and his breath hitched at every inhale.

Slowly, he pulled Sam down onto his shoulder, letting his younger brothers head rest upon it. Sam’s hand reached up and clutched at his teeshirt. Sam seized once before softly choking back a sob.

“Hey,” whispered Dean. “Let it out.”

And Sam did. He cried into Dean’s shoulder – quietly, as if it would be too much of a bother if he made too much noise – and Dean let him.

This wasn’t them. They brushed things off, they hunted evil. When one of them was taken, or gone, they let anger rule over grief, and they killed and make deals and did shady things in the dark to get back to one another. But not this. This was raw, and emotional, and it was almost too much for Dean to bare.

They had been through too much, they had seen too much. Accumulated years in Hell, literally and metaphorically had built upon themselves, and they kept it bottled up inside as if letting it out would be catastrophic. And watching Sam, Dean decided that maybe it could be.

“Dean.”

Dean turned his head, younger brother still attached to his shoulder, and saw Cas standing in the doorway. Solid as ever, trench coat on, tie askew. Mary stood behind him, a nervous look on her face, and Gabriel was to her left.

Cas took a cautious step into the cabin. The angel’s eyes slid to Sam and his usual stoic face melted into a worried frown, if only for a second before he composed himself and let his eyes drift to Dean.

“Dean, I thought –“

“I know, Cas. It’s fine, just – just make sure he’s good, yeah?”

The guilt was evident on Cas’s face, and it was growing in Dean as well. They had left him. They had left him behind. To be at the mercy of vampires, at the mercy of Satan himself.

But Sam had been dead. He had probably been dead before they even realized what was going on. Dean ran his thumb softly down Sam’s neck. There was no way he could have survived. He vampires would have gotten them too, or maybe Lucifer wouldn’t have appeared.

Keep telling yourself that, he thought to himself.

Cas made a move to step forward, but it was soft and shaky.

“Save you grace, Cassie,” said Gabriel, stepping past Mary and Cas. “I’ll do it.”

Cas looked mildly relieved. Dean was never too sure of the extent of the damage done to Cas’s grace – his grace and powers seemed to fluctuate and change on a whim – but more than anything Dean was almost certain that Cas just didn’t trust himself to be with Sam right now. Dean knew Cas carried his guilt the same way he did; buried and repressed, an internal struggle to deal with alone.

Gabriel crossed the room to the bed, and slowly knelt on one knee next to the brothers. Sam’s face was still hidden in Dean’s shirt, and he flinched slightly at the presence of the archangel. Gabriel looked concerned, and concerned for an archangel was concern enough for anybody.

“Sammy,” said Gabriel gently. The angel slowly leaned in towards Sam’s head so that only he, and by extension Dean, could hear what he was saying. “I’m going to use some angel mojo on you, okay. Just to make sure my little brother didn’t go anything to hurt you, alright?”

And Dean was grateful. At his mother, and the powerful beings, all doing what they could to comfort his brother, and tactfully ignore his tears. Sam deserved this, Dean knew that. But that fact wouldn’t stop Sam from being embarrassed later.

Gabriel raised his hand slowly and rested it gently on Sam’s shoulders. Dean watched as Gabriel’s eyes glowed for a brief second before he removed his hand. Sam stilled under the angel’s touch, and Dean felt his hitched breath begin to slow, felt the racing heart begin to beat normally.

“No physical damage,” he said softly. “No damage to his soul. Lucifer resurrected him well, if one can even say that.”

Dean nodded.

“I calmed him down at bit, he’ll pass out pretty soon.” Gabriel lowered his voice even more, and Dean had to strain to hear it. “He won’t dream, not tonight.”

“You should get some sleep,” said Mary. “Both of you.”

“I’ll make sure no one interrupts you,” added Cas, and Gabriel nodded, standing up.

Thank you, mouthed Dean, his eyes flitting from Cas to Gabriel.

The angels nodded softly, before the three left the room slowly and closed the door behind them. Dean pulled Sam away from his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. They were red and swollen, and his face was puffy.

“Let’s get you into bed, Sammy,” he said, and gently peeled Sam further off him and down onto the bed, lifting his long legs so that they were on the mattress. Sam’s feet dangled off the end, but it was soft, and it was warm, so Dean figured he wouldn’t mind. 

Dean stood, spotting a blanket folded over a rickety chair, and crossed the room to grab it. When he turned back to Sam, his eyes were already closing shut. His face was streaked with tears, and his hair was matted to his forehead. His neck was bloody, and Dean went back to the bed at little quicker than he had left it and placed his fingertips at Sam’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

It beat, steadily.

Dean exhaled shakily and shook the blanket out. He laid it out on top of Sam, making sure it was tucked in on the sides, and that he was warm before sitting down gently at the edge.

Sam slept, and Dean watched, and a war raged on outside. They were running short on supplies, men, and energy. They had no plan, they had nothing. And still, Dean watched as his little brother slept, uninterrupted and peacefully for the first time in a long time.

There would be time everything else in the morning.


End file.
